Lewis walked forward to the iron balcony overlooking the dance floor, and for a moment Field thought that Natasha was looking at him, but her eyes returned slowly to the middle of the room, her hips still swaying as she threw her head back and smiled.

The song came to an end and she put the microphone down. For a moment there was a hushed silence, as if they wanted to be sure she had finished, and then the room was filled with thunderous applause, some of the men close to the stage on their feet and shouting, “Encore! Encore!”

She waved them away, almost contemptuously, before climbing down the small wooden steps at the end of the stage. As a large man stood and walked up to take her place, she tried to make her way down the side of the dance floor, past well-wishers and admirers who impeded her progress. She bent her head to kiss an elderly, balding man who was seated in front of her, and he held her arm, whispering in her ear. Field noticed how low her dress was cut. She had a string of pearls around her neck that reached almost to the floor when she was bending down, and her hair obscured her face.

She laughed and the man stood, taking her hand and leading her through to the dance floor, smiling smugly, Field thought, as they took their place among the twirling couples.

He forced himself to turn away, only to find Lewis still smiling at him. “In love, eh?” He shook his head. “Beyond your price range, old man.”

“She was a friend of Lena Orlov’s.”

“She was, but then, I think you’ll find Natasha has quite a few friends, if you know what I mean.”

Field turned to face the dance floor again, to avoid saying something he would regret. His eyes were drawn back to her even though he tried to focus on almost anyone else.

She towered over the old man, but he was clutching her-pawing her-his hand on her buttocks.

Was that what she did? She danced and fucked men like that for money?

Field looked up across her head, to the tables beyond. This room had formed the backdrop for the photograph he’d seen of Natasha and Lena together.

“Does she work here?” he asked Lewis.

“Who?”

“Natasha… Miss Medvedev.”

“Not anymore.”

“She used to?”

“Not so very long ago, she was the star attraction, but she only takes a turn now if she wants to. She sings when the mood takes her. Great voice.”

“What has caused the change in her position?”

Lewis shrugged. He was playing the indolent, ignorant playboy, but Field had already judged him a man of shrewd intelligence, much sharper than he liked to make out.

Field was suddenly certain that Lewis had slept with Natasha.

The band temporarily halted, the white man at this end of the stage lowering his trombone and wiping the sweat from his brow with a cloth. Lewis turned around, descended the steps to the dance floor, and walked to the other side. He followed Natasha as she glided elegantly to her place on the plinth above and waited as the elderly man she had danced with kissed her hand.

Natasha smiled as she saw Charles Lewis, and Field watched him kiss her on the cheek and lead her back to the floor as the band started up again.

Field found it impossible to take his eyes off them.

They were a handsome couple, the same height, his face square and handsome, save for a broken nose, hers so perfectly formed it was uncomfortable to look at.

Field tore himself away and turned around.

He needed to have a piss, so he walked to the set of swinging doors beside him and pushed his way through to the corridor beyond, smacking the doors loudly into the walls.

He washed his hands, looking at his face in the mirror and seeing his anger reflected back at him. He breathed in deeply and bent his head.

Back in the lobby, he bought a packet of cigarettes from the attendant. He smoked one, looking out through a small window at the end at the rooftops behind the Bund. It was time to go home now. Lewis would probably not even notice he’d gone.

He was leaning against the wall, thinking he was smoking too much, when Natasha Medvedev came through. Her smile faded as she saw him. He straightened, holding the cigarette down by his side.

“I’m not one of your schoolmasters,” she said.

Field tried to laugh, but wasn’t certain he even got as far as a smile. Self-consciously, he took another drag.

“Are you going to offer me one?”

He dug the packet from his pocket and chucked it at her. She caught it and took one, waiting until he leaned forward to light it.

“You’re not much of a gentleman, are you, Officer?”

“And you’re not much of a lady.”

She inhaled, blowing the smoke out of the side of her mouth, before moving over to the wall opposite him and leaning back against it.

Field threw his cigarette, which he wasn’t enjoying, out of the window and put his hands in his pockets.

“I saw you arriving with Charlie Lewis. You’re a friend of his?”

“I hardly know him.”

“Well, you should get to-”

“You danced here with Lena Orlov.” Field had taken his hands from his pockets again and spoken with unexpected ferocity. “You were friends.”

“So?”

“Everything you told me this afternoon was a pack of lies.”

“And you’re hurt?”

“That’s an offense, do you know that?”

“Is that a threat?”

“You can laugh at us all you want, but you’re vulnerable here, Miss Medvedev, no matter how much you sleep with the likes of Charlie Lewis or Lu.”

She was staring at him. “Is that what you think I am? You think I’m a prostitute?”

From a standing start, he’d insulted and perhaps-this couldn’t be true, but somehow seemed to be-hurt her. He wished he were less drunk. The conversation had developed a momentum that their brief acquaintance hardly merited.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend you. The ways of the city are strange.”

She was still looking at him, her hostility not assuaged. “They are strange, and perhaps it is you who should be careful.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a warning.”

“You were good friends with Lena Orlov.”

“Yes I was.” Now she threw her own cigarette through the window.

“Then why did you lie to me?”

“Because I didn’t want to answer a lot of questions.”

“Why did you go around to her apartment?”

She sighed. “To get some milk.”

“But-”

“I went in because it was unusual for her door to be unlocked. That was the only lie.” She sighed. “Lena was a Russian girl, Detective.”

“Like you.”

“Yes, like me.”

“So it doesn’t matter.”

She looked at him, then came forward and took the lapel of his jacket, flicking it with one long, thin finger. “You need a new suit, or you’ll boil to death. The summer has only just begun.”

Charles Lewis walked in through the doors and stopped. “Conspiracy,” he said. “He’s not rich enough for you.” He took Natasha Medvedev’s hand. “Come on, I want one more dance.”

Field left and took a rickshaw back to his dingy room in the Carter Road quarters. The steward was asleep in his chair when he got to the top floor and the corridor quiet. Prokopieff’s door was, thankfully, shut.

Field closed his own door carefully, lest Prokopieff hear, and took off his jacket, switching on the fan on the wall beside him.

The room was tiny. Yellow paint peeled in large strips off the walls and ceiling on account of the damp. There was a small window, but Field had learned never to open it in the summer because of the mosquitoes.

He sat down at his desk, put his holster on the starched white sheet beside him, and opened the leather-bound diary. He returned to his jacket to remove his father’s fountain pen.

Underneath the date and still feeling drunk, he wrote: Met a girl-a woman-and can’t stop thinking about whether or not she is compromised and… honest. Don’t know why it matters, but it does.